18th June 1998. Grimmauld Place

It was a quiet, sunny day in the district of Grimmauld Place, in London. Summer was around the corner and children were jauntily playing in the street.

There was nothing about that ordinary place to suggest that strange and mysterious things hid themselves behind the gray, crumbling houses facades of that area of the city.

Or at least, nothing for the adults who lived there. However, same wasn't true for the children who lived in Grimmauld Place. In fact, it is known that kids are able to see things that are usually invisible or supposed to be fantastic, unrealistic for adults.

There was a pretty famous legend in Grimmauld Place, about a mysterious house that every child in the district was sure it was concealed, hidden from human being's sight. Every little boy and girl believed that they were looking at a haunted house, crawling with ghosts and any other sort of terrifying creatures.

That legend had arisen from a peculiar detail about the house numbers of the street. From a missing house number, to be exact. The number twelve, to be even more exact.
If you were standing outside number eleven and looked to the left, you could easily see the number ten, and it made sense. However, if you looked to the right, there would be no number twelve, but number thirteen.

All the adults of the neighbourhood were absolutely sure that it was nothing more than an insignificant human mistake. Children, instead, were convinced it smelt like the work of a ghost or a witch who secretly lived there, in their same district.

A test of courage was even organised to verify the actual presence of somekind of magic, behind the strange lack of the number twelve of Grimmauld Place.
The test of courage simply consisted of throwing a stone and hitting the dark, grayish, empty facade between number eleven and number thirteen.

Obviously, nothing usually happened, except for the old neighbours' threatening reproofs, coming out through the windows around.  Nevertheless, every now and then, some kid swore he had seen a little window appearing on the shabby wall, with a disturbing, dark child silhouette behind the glass.

It was a quiet, sunny day in Grimmauld Place and a small handful of giggling children was standing in front of the empty facade between number eleven and thirteen, as always. The old people, who lived in the flats nearby, snorted annoyed while looking at the kids with suspicion.

But the old neighbours of the houses number eleven and thirteen in Grimmauld Place were not the only ones bothered by the situation.

Someone else was looking in the same way at those noisy kids, who kept throwing stones against the old walls of the big flat, the hidden number twelve of Grimmauld Place. That is, the house of one of the most ancient and illustrious families, known in the magic world: the House of Black.

Kreacher, a small creature as old and grayish as the building itself inside he lived, scampered around the rooms, muttering insults towards the little, nasty Muggles brats, who were standing down the street outside.
Kreacher was the house-elf of the House of Black, an ancient and famous family of wizards and witches, living in Great Britain. Or, he had been their house-elf, to be exact. All the Black family members were dead, in fact. No heir had survived to keep the illustrious family name alive.

Kreacher entered the sumptuous living room of the number twelve of Grimmauld Place, in order to tidy up and clean. The whole room was in the darkness, except for one shy ray of light, that filtered through the high windows, always cloaked by black and heavy curtains.

All the elf's intentions of cleaning disappeared when his gaze rested on the wall in front of him, barely lit by the sunlight. He walked across the dark room to where a huge tapestry hung the length of the wall. It looked immensely old and it portrayed the whole Black family tree, dating back to the Middle Ages. Large words at the very top of the tapestry read:

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

'Toujours pur'

Kreacher got closer to the wall, staring at the enormous tapestry with nostalgic devotion. On the deep green fabric, the long branches of a bright tree, beautifully embroidered with golden threads, sprawled in every direction. Every branch ended with a name of one of the Black family's member. Dates of birth and death followed them.

Kreacher solemnly raised his big eyes to the golden tree on the wall and scanned all the deceased masters' names, whom he had used to serve. First of all, the old elf's gaze met the branches of Orion and Walburga Black.
Walburga was absolutely the mistress whom Kreacher venerated the most. Even now, just the memory about the witch was enough to Kreacher to find the strength to carry on and to be true to the House of Black.

Under the noble couple, three other sparkling golden branches stretched till the very bottom of the tapestry. Kreacher saw a small, round, charred hole, like a cigarette burn, and his eyes turned into annoyed sticks. The old grayish creature knew well that behind the small, round burn there was the name of Sirius Black. He was dead, as anyone else on that tapestry. Murdered, to be exact. But Kreacher didn't seem too sad about it. He remembered Sirius very well. He was a rebel, too arrogant, too disrespectful. He had never shown respect for the ancient values ​​handed down through the generations by the Black family.

Sirius had run away from home, swearing that he would never come back. The inflexible and cruel Mrs. Black had taken him at his word, banishing him from the family for good. She had blasted his name off the tapestry, like a rotten branch to be uprooted, in order to preserve the honor of the family.

Sirius had moved to his best friend's house, James Potter, who, some years later, had chose him as godfather to his son, Harry Potter. James Potter also had died shortly after the birth of his son, along with his wife, Lily Evans, at the hands of the most powerful dark wizard of all time: Lord Voldemort. Why Voldemort had decided to attack the Potters, and in particular, their defenseless baby, still remained a mystery.
Some had named a mysterious prophecy, now shattered, and therefore lost forever, which had elected little Harry as the only one capable of defeating Lord Voldemort, the wizard who had thrown the wizarding world into the darkness of despair and destruction. Lord Voldemort himself was frightened by the prophecy, so he had set out in search of Harry Potter, to kill him personally, in order to destroy every possible threat to his rise to power.

So, on a cold Halloween night, Lord Voldemort had gone to Godric's Hollow, the small village where the Potters had hidden to protect their beloved son. The dark wizard had identified their hiding place and had shown up to their house armed with a wand and treachery. He had killed the two young parents without mercy, in cold blood. Then, he turned to little Harry Potter, unaware of what was happening around him. Lord Voldemort had poured all his powerful dark magic onto the helpless child, who was crying now orphaned in his crib. A curse that had bounced off him, turning Lord Voldemort into a being more dead than alive - though not yet totally destroyed - and saving little Harry from certain death.

After that night, Harry Potter had become the "boy who lived", the "chosen one", the only hope for that magical world now torn apart by Voldemort's evil. And so it was. Harry Potter had grown into a brilliant young wizard, over the years. However, Lord Voldemort had also returned, after regaining his dark powers. In May 1998, one of the most memorable battles that wizarding world would ever remember had taken place at Hogwarts, the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for Britain's young wizards. Kreacher had also taken part in the fight. And he had seen how his new master, Harry Potter, had defeated the mighty Lord Voldemort, once and for all. The mysterious prophecy had come true. Harry Potter had won and the Dark Lord was dead.

However, many had died, victims of Lord Voldemort's cruelty. Some were celebrated as heroes. Others, instead, were forgotten, ignored. Misunderstood.The Kreacher's gaze slid beyond Sirius's burn mark, along the golden path traced by the branches, to a second name. Regulus Arcturus Black, the youngest of the Blacks' children. He was only eighteen when he died. The elf's heart was still painfully torn from that loss. Regulus had been brave and full of honor, like his mother, Walburga. Kreacher had worshiped him almost as much as his old mistress. The Regulus' death was atrocious and shrouded in mystery, as much as the dark abysses in which Regulus's corpse lay. Nobody knew what the youngest Black had died for.

Kreacher's sad eyes stared at Regulus's name for a long time, before continuing their journey along the golden threads of the tapestry.

Something mysterious bound the two Black brothers.

Another branch stood between the two ones of Sirius and Regulus. It branched off at the same height as Sirius's, burned in the same way, uprooted by that inauspicious dynasty. Another small burn mark, which no one could explain the origin. Another death passed over in silence. Unknown. Never revealed.

A mysterious girl name was laying under that little dark hole, as small as a cigarette burn. It was the name of Sirius's twin.

And that name was Alya Merope Black.

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Hi guys!

I'm Valentina and this is the first time I write a fanfiction in a language that is not mine.
I'm Italian and English is not my first language, so I suppose I'll make a lot of mistakes.

It is a sort of experiment, an exercise to improve my English, so if you help me to correct the errors, I'll be very grateful!

I really need your feedbacks, so please leave your comments and let me know every your opinions about this story!

I hope to read you soon^^!

Valentina ❤